


neon and fucking garbage

by anirondack



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Racing, Ronan Lynch Makes Bad Decisions, Street Racing, The Dream Thieves-ish Era, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 13:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11291436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anirondack/pseuds/anirondack
Summary: He pretends he doesn’t know what he’s listening for until he hears it, the far-away revving of engines. He pretends that it could be a semi truck, shipping cargo late at night, the driver high on anything to keep him awake through the night. He pretends like he doesn’t keep an eye on his rearview mirror, pretends he doesn’t hold his breath, pretends he doesn’t let it all out in a shivery, anticipatory sigh when a slash of moonlit white comes around the bend.written forf0x-meets-w0lfwho's been having a rough time of it.





	neon and fucking garbage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fox-meets-wolf (bluebear)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebear/gifts).



> hey trc fandom, did you miss me? it's been a minute
> 
> idk why i wrote this other than [f0x-meets-w0lf](http://f0x-meets-w0lf.tumblr.com/) was having a shitty time and i felt like they needed something nice, but here it is. i haven't done a kavinsky/dream pack fic before, so i hope they're alright.
> 
> Edit: I think this got mistagged earlier, my bad

_Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick_.

Ronan rolls up to a stoplight and slams on his breaks, then sits back in his seat. He looks at his nails, then scrapes the bits of foam-like cover from the steering wheel out from one of them. There’s a groove that he’s been working on, picking without thinking about it, the nail of his index finger making a _tick_ sound just barely audible over the music coming out of his stereo. His palms are sweating, so he wipes them off on the thighs of his jeans.

The light turns green, but there’s no one behind him, so Ronan just sits, shifting the car into neutral. He’s on the outskirts of Henrietta, and no one comes this way unless they’re going on the freeway south, and no one wants to be going on the freeway south when it’s this late and this hot. Ronan reaches out with the hand that’s not digging a hole in his steering wheel and turns the stereo volume down a little, and he listens. There are cicadas out, screaming in the grass because it’s so hot out, and crickets, occasionally chirping to each other. Ronan unsticks his back from his seat, then flops back again and instantly becomes re-stuck.

He pretends he doesn’t know what he’s listening for until he hears it, the far-away revving of engines. He pretends that it could be a semi truck, shipping cargo late at night, the driver high on anything to keep him awake through the night. He pretends like he doesn’t keep an eye on his rearview mirror, pretends he doesn’t hold his breath, pretends he doesn’t let it all out in a shivery, anticipatory sigh when a slash of moonlit white comes around the bend.

Kavinsky’s sprung for tinted windows this month, but Ronan doesn’t need to be able to see into the car to imagine the look on Kavinsky’s face. He’s very well acquainted with the sloppy, sharklike grins that Kavinsky likes to throw at him through open windows along with insults. He can imagine the smell of whatever Kavinsky’s smoking - a cigarette, a joint, something brand new that breathes out pink clouds - and taste toothpaste and alcohol on his breath. He pretends he hasn’t done this enough to know all of that.

He can see the shadows of two figures inside and nothing more, and his nostrils flare. Kavinsky brought a dog with him. He wonders which one it is, but not very hard - they’re too tall to be Skov, too short to be Swan. Jiang likes racing in his own car best, and it’s always Prokopenko anyway. Proko is Kavinsky’s favorite pet, the one who will concede to sitting in the passenger’s seat, the one whose head will disappear on long, meandering curves, ducked down under the dashboard, while Kavinsky looks at Ronan and not the road and smirks.

The Mistubishi comes up to where Ronan’s idling, hits the breaks, and revs its engine loudly. Ronan nearly rolls his eyes - he doesn’t need a written invitation, it’s obvious what he’s been waiting for. The sound of the engine shatters the screaming of the insects and the thudding of Ronan’s music and settles in Ronan’s ribs like something sitting on his chest. His body flushes hot and sweat prickles at the back of his neck.

The streetlight has cycled through its colors a few times, and it’s green now, but no one moves. Ronan sees the figure on the passenger’s side lean over to the driver, and then back. It holds up its hands and Ronan can just make out the outline of two middle fingers pressed up against the glass. Ronan’s lips draw back in an impotent snarl and his fingers curl around the gear shift. He rolls the window down, lusting after the feeling of wind clawing at his face, and is treated to muffled rap music, audible but unintelligible through the Mistubishi’s door.

The light goes yellow, then red. Ronan’s car vibrates with its engine, up through his feet and into his heart. He’s hot and sweaty and anxious and _ready_ , foot on the clutch and itching to fire off. The Mistubishi revs again, a little quieter this time, and Ronan thinks he hears laughter too. Laughter and engines and the cicadas screaming. It sounds like summer, heavy in his ears and his veins, and it tastes like it too when he opens his mouth and breathes in exhaust.

The light turns green, and both cars rip away from the intersection.

Kavinsky takes the lead for a second, and then Ronan pulls ahead of him. The Mistubishi wobbles a little, like it’s startled, and that’s not like Kavinsky. Ronan wonders how high he is, if the only way Ronan can save himself is to pull ahead and win by so much that he won’t get hit by the car debris. His speedometer is climbing, and white paint fills his entire sideview mirror. They whip around a curve, and as Ronan shifts up, he sees a dull neon sign far off in the distance. A motel next to a road stop, for truck drivers who are coming off whatever they take to keep them awake through the night. It flickers, proclaiming vacancy every couple seconds. Ronan leans on the horn with his elbow to let them know. He glances back in his mirror to see if the message was received, and the passenger’s side window of the Mistubishi rolls down. Ronan wants to roll his eyes again, but they get wide instead when Kavinsky leans out of the window.

He’s all shark tonight, grinning with a cigarette between his teeth, the smoke being whipped away by the wind. He hangs one arm out the window, a clear water bottle of something in his hand, and Ronan is so startled to see him, not Proko, not any of Kavinsky’s other dogs - which means that Proko is _racing Kavinsky’s car_ \- that he jams the gear shift trying to get up to fourth. The BMW shudders and slows and Ronan quickly looks away to correct, but Kavinsky and Proko have all the momentum, and they shoot past him by the time he’s back in gear. He hears Kavinsky whooping, laughing as he passes, and Ronan wants to shout back, but he can’t until he catches up to them and that flickery neon sign is getting closer by the second.

The BMW puts up a good fight, but it just can’t recover. Proko rushes past the motel and skids to a halt in the empty road stop, leaving burning tire marks behind, and Ronan nearly crashes into them. He swerves at the last minute and slams on the brakes, skidding thirty or forty feet away, his seatbelt locking up and holding him in place. He jerks hard when the car comes to a stop, and now that his entire existence isn’t the way the road disappears under him, he realizes that he’s panting, almost light headed with adrenaline and humiliation and rage. He just sits for a second, hands trembling, before he can reach down and unbuckle his seatbelt. He shuts the BMW off but doesn’t bother taking the keys out when he slides out of the seat and slams the door behind him.

He knows what he’ll see when he turns around, but it still makes him feel like his stomach has fallen out of his body when he raises his head to find Kavinsky and Proko walking toward him. They’re side by side, which is unusual for them - Kavinsky loves to lead and Proko loves to follow. Kavinsky’s hand is still resting low on Proko’s back, and Proko still looks pleased about it, but they’re shoulder to shoulder, stalking forward like wild animals, and Ronan’s feet are rooted to the ground.

“Good race,” Kavinsky calls, once he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to yell. Proko preens a little, and Ronan swallows hard. “It’s okay, I know not all boys can finish. Common problem, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You didn’t even drive,” Ronan snaps back. His fingers curl into fists and then relax. They’re so close now, only fifteen feet away. He can still smell the exhaust, the gasoline, the cigarette smoke. It’s disgusting how intoxicating it is.

“And you lost anyway,” Kavinsky replies. His grin is sharp like his car, but much less beautiful. It too is disgusting in how intoxicating it is.

(Ronan sometimes wishes that Kavinsky was beautiful, to make the _want_ a little less shameful. If Kavinsky was beautiful, perhaps Ronan could convince himself that that’s why they keep clashing together like out-of-sync gears. But Kavinsky is a strand of rusty barbed wire, bad to look at and worse to touch, deeply embedded in Ronan’s skin, and Ronan has decided never to take it out.)

“I can’t believe you let him drive,” Ronan says. His eyes dart from Kavinsky to Proko and back again. “Can’t believe you let him touch your things like that.”

“He _is_ my things,” Kavinsky replies. He pushes Proko forward with the hand that’s still resting against Proko’s back. “Go on.”

Kavinsky falls away, maybe five feet back, but Proko keeps stalking forward until he’s in Ronan’s space. He‘s taller than Ronan but only by a little, so Ronan doesn’t have to work hard to meet his eyes.

“K said that if I won, I could have whatever I wanted,” Proko says, voice low. Ronan’s eyes roam over him, lightning quick, his brain taking note of everything it can. He doesn’t smell alcohol on Proko’s breath, or even a cigarette. Proko’s hands are by his sides, not reaching out like Kavinsky would. Proko probably isn’t used to just going for it, and that makes Ronan laugh humorlessly.

“Did he, now.”

“Uh huh. And I won.”

“So fucking what?”

“So, I want you to give me what I want.”

“And what the fuck is that, then?”

Proko smirks, his wide eyes staying wide and uncrinkled. “Don’t be stupid.”

He steps forward and Ronan is ready for him, his hands already sliding to rest on Proko’s hips. Proko presses their mouths together, already hot, already open, too much tongue with no preparation. Dirty and hot and too fast, just like it always is, just like Ronan so desperately, desperately needs. Proko tastes like salt and ash, like he always does, something he’s never able to shake. He wraps one hand around the back of Ronan’s neck and shoves the other up the back of his shirt, pawing clumsily at Ronan’s ribs and spine.

Kavinsky whistles behind them and Ronan is forced to remember that he’s here too. He comes up behind Proko, hand on the small of his back again, and he grins up at Ronan. “Fuck, you’re so easy,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “You’d suck the dick of anyone who beat you.”

Ronan rips his mouth away for a second to spit on Kavinsky’s shoes, and then Proko, in a surprising and pleasant show of dominance, jerks Ronan’s head back into place and crushes their mouths together again. Ronan makes a sound, and he knows that, even over the crushing night air and the muffled music still coming out of the Mistubishi and the fucking screaming fucking cicadas, they heard it. He already knows that he’s lost.

“He likes that, doesn’t he?” Kavinsky murmurs, like it’s some fucking secret. “What a good boy.”

Proko makes a strange, rumbling sort of noise in his chest, and then he pushes, shoving Ronan backwards until he runs up against his car. The impact knocks a soft breath out of him, and Proko swallows it eagerly like he’s excited to be given oxygen. His hand moves back to the nape of Ronan’s neck, a ragged thumb nail scratching behind Ronan’s ear in a way that seems almost tender. He squeezes and Ronan shivers and digs his own nails into Proko’s sides, and that just makes Proko sigh, comfortable with the sting and waiting for more.

“Turn around a bit, I can’t see,” Kavinksy’s voice cuts in. “Why don’t you just bring him up here?”

When Ronan looks away again, Kavinsky is sprawled across the hood of the BMW. His hand is shoved down his jeans, though it’s not moving. He twists his head against the windshield, his gaze inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

“I want him here,” Proko says, almost petulantly.

Kavinsky heaves a great sigh. “You’re so needy too. It’s like I collect desperate boys.”

Ronan’s nostrils flare again and he’s ready to throw a punch, but then Kavinsky is rolling over and reaching out and closing his fingers around Ronan’s wrist. Kavinsky is skinny but has a startlingly strong grip sometimes, and the grind of bone against bone is one of the best parts of being held down by him. He jerks Ronan’s hand back, pinning it against the side of the car. Ronan tries to pull away, more to be able to claim later that he did rather than because he actually wants to escape, but Kavinsky unsurprisingly holds him still. He tugs, and Ronan stumbles a few steps to the side, until the car door disappears from behind him and he presses back against Kavinsky’s chest instead.

“K,” Proko whines.

“I wanted to have fun too,” Kavinsky says. In a flash, he has his arms wound around Roan, pinning his biceps to his sides, pulling him back enough to keep him off center. Ronan wriggles a little, but it’s hopeless not least of all because being held so tightly feels good, and not most of all because Proko is all but fucking his mouth and he’s lost to it.

Kavinsky usually cuts right to the chase, so it’s surprising that Proko keeps kissing him. Ronan would be bent over the hood of a car by now if it had just been the two of them, him and K, ripping the asphalt apart under their tires, but Proko takes his time. It’s not sweet, because nothing Kavinsky touches could ever be sweet, but it’s needed and almost soft. Ronan can feel Kavinsky’s interest in the situation pressing against the small of his back and he doesn’t have to care for a moment, moaning softly into Proko’s mouth and swallowing his breath in return.

Proko’s hands are steady when they find Ronan’s jeans, popping the button and scraping at the zipper.

“I wanna touch you,” Proko mumbles against Ronan’s mouth, then sinks his teeth into Ronan’s lip. Ronan gasps and shudders and drops his head back against Kavinsky’s shoulder, his hips pushing forward into Proko’s hands. Kavinsky scrapes his nails over Ronan’s scalp a few times and then Proko gets Ronan’s jeans open and drags them down just enough to make his cock slip, half hard, out of his boxers. Proko makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and takes Ronan in hand, wasting no time. He squeezes Ronan’s shaft almost uncomfortably and tugs upwards, which makes Ronan hiss, but then he spits between the two of them and saliva lands in the space between his finger and his thumb. Proko smears it over Ronan’s skin, which feels filthy in the most self indulgent way, and then the next stroke is easier and sends Ronan shuddering back against Kavinsky again.

“There’s a good boy,” Kavinsky purrs. He rubs up against Ronan’s back, reminding him that Ronan’s not the only one enjoying this. “Two good boys, even.” Proko tilts his head a little, even as he’s focused on jerking Ronan off with one hand and working his own fly open with the other. He can’t ever help but bare his throat, and Ronan lunges forward to put his mouth on the bare expanse of skin, but then fingers are digging into his face and dragging him back. They force his face up to meet Kavinsky’s gaze upside down. “Don’t break my toys, Lynch.”

“Don’t let me play with them, then,” Ronan shoots back as steadily as he can.

“He’s not the one being played with,” Kavinsky says, then grins again. He drops his hand down to Ronan’s chest, scratching hard through the thin fabric of his tank top, and then suddenly, fiery hot skin presses against Ronan’s cock. Ronan glances down and chokes out a moan when he sees Proko’s cock out and his hand working hard to take them both together, fingers stretched wide. Proko’s eyes are half-mast and he butts his head hard against Ronan’s shoulder, then mouths sloppily at the corner of Ronan’s jaw.

“Shit, Proko,” Ronan breathes, dropping his head back again. Kavinsky worms his hand down the front of Ronan’s tank top and his nails graze over a nipple. Ronan twitches, so Kavinsky of course, grips the nipple tightly and twists it. Ronan shouts, loud over the cicadas and the music still playing in Kavinsky’s idling, dying car and Proko’s breath in his ear. It hurts like a knife, shooting out in all sorts of directions, and it makes him thrust up into Proko’s hand, his path eased by how slick Proko already is. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“He got all hard in the car,” Kavinsky croons. “Poor baby.”

“And you had nothing to do with that,” Ronan pants. Proko’s teeth scrape over his throat, but he doesn’t bite down and he doesn’t suck. Ronan kind of wishes he would, and is desperately grateful that he isn’t.

“I helped, maybe, but Prokopenko’s been known to soak a pair of panties, haven’t you?” He reaches over Ronan to get a handful of Proko’s hair and tugs. Ronan feels Proko’s breath stutter and hears his quiet little whimper, and then the teeth dig harder into the junction of his shoulder. “He was so eager.”

“‘S not the only one,” Ronan manages, arching back to put pressure on Kavinsky’s cock. It can’t be comfortable, and he’s glad it’s not, but he’s also glad for the way Kavinsky breathes out and the way his nails dig into Ronan’s skin. “You two blowin’ each other on the freeway?”

“Why, Lynch, road head’s illegal,” Kavinsky says, mock innocence betrayed by the way his voice has gone a little hoarse. “Just like road handjobs, and road fingering, and road riding…”

Ronan doesn’t believe that Proko ever rode Kavinsky while Kavinsky was driving, except that he absolutely does.

Kavinsky pulls his hand out from Ronan’s shirt and pushes him forward into Proko. Proko’s hand wraps like a vice around Ronan’s bicep, squeezing like Ronan’s gonna go anywhere. His hand isn’t big enough for the two of them and Ronan finds himself reaching up to help, his own fingers stretching to wrap around the heads of their cocks and squeeze. Proko swallows a soft cry and his nails dig so hard into Ronan’s arm and Ronan swears there’ll be marks when he lets go.

Kavinsky tugs Ronan back against his chest and rucks the back of his shirt up and Ronan feels hot, hot, damp, hot skin press against his back. Kavinsky ruts his cock along the dip where Ronan’s spine is, and Ronan blindly reaches his free arm back, catching a handful of Kavinsky’s hair. He pulls as hard as he can and Kavinsky sinks his teeth into the back of Ronan’s neck, which makes Ronan cry out and wonder if he should bother turning around and making Kavinsky kiss him. It’s like licking a minty ashtray, or a whiskey ashtray, or a fire pit that’s still on fire. Ronan cranes his head back and does it anyway.

Kavinsky groans loudly, exaggerated and delighted, and bites Ronan’s tongue. Ronan pushes him off with his own, and on paper it’s a disgusting experience, but as he’s living it, it stokes the fire that’s been in his bloodstream since he stopped at that red light. Kavinsky’s got a habit of making Ronan revel in his own filth, making him enjoy the taste of cigarettes that he doesn’t smoke and traded alcohol. He licks into Ronan’s mouth too soon, just like his dog, and Ronan lets him because it makes his basest parts vibrate with satisfaction.

Proko seems to be irritated that he’s being ignored, so he shoves his hand up Ronan’s shirt and scratches right down the middle of his sternum. Ronan’s head whips forward, banging into Kavinsky’s on the way, and he presses his forehead against Proko’s. Proko is leaking a lot now, but Ronan’s getting there himself, and Proko’s hand makes slick noises as it works them over together. He moves his hips as well as his hand, making the wet drag wetter and faster, until he’s grinding up against Ronan, standing with one foot on tiptoe to get the best angle. He drives Ronan back into Kavinsky, pushing forward, getting more and more animal as he ruts them together. He barely stops short of growling, but it’s hitting all sorts of things for Ronan, and he smashes their mouths together again to feel Proko’s teeth bite back at him.

He’s not disappointed, and he’s viscerally pleased when Proko bites his lip and tugs. It hurts, and it opens up a split lip Ronan never leaves alone, making everything taste like iron as well as salt. Proko finds the split and sucks hard, and then he leans away to spit in his hand again, and that too is such a base and visceral thing that Ronan loses it right here. He jerks his head back, hitting Kavinsky’ cheekbone, and it hurts but that makes it better and he spills all over Proko’s hand and his own belly. His hand falls away uselessly and Proko picks up the slack, working fast and hard along the top half of Ronan’s cock. Ronan shakes hard, his hips bucking up with all the leverage he has. He rubs back against Kavinsky and forward against Proko, trapped between them like a storm, and they make him wear himself out before Kavinsky hooks his chin over Ronan’s shoulder to look at Proko and says, “You too.”

Proko moans, a sighing little thing, and then gasps in a sharp breath as he comes as well. Ronan feels Proko’s cock twitch against his own, and he feels come stripe over his belly, mixing with the mess that wa already there. He wonders vaguely if he still has any napkins in the passenger’s side, because Proko just buries his face in Ronan’s shoulder and keeps rutting into Ronan’s skin until he’s dry and shaking, barely staying upright.

Kavinsky pushes Ronan away again, to the side this time, and Ronan lists and stumbles and catches himself. Proko takes a step forward to balance himself, and then he looks at Kavinsky, who now has a hand wrapped around his cock and is stroking himself roughly. Ronan stares too, and Kavinsky looks between them, then says, “One of you has to deal with this.”

Like someone has cut his strings, Proko sinks to his knees, landing on the pavement with a thud. Ronan winces at how much it must hurt, but Proko doesn’t seem to care. Kavinsky slides off the car just enough that he’s within reach, and then Proko crams as much cock as he can into his mouth and down his throat and it’s hard to think about anything but that.

Ronan can’t do anything but sit there and stare. Post orgasm, a few of his senses are coming back to him, enough for him to remember to tuck himself away, and he feels sticky on all sides, come on his front and precome dabbed all up his spine. It’s hot enough that he can pretend it’s sweat that’s making his shirt stick to him. He wipes off as much come as he can with the heel of his palm and then rubs it on the ground, never taking his eyes off of the two boys leaned up against his car. Kavinsky’s head is thrown back and his hips are bucking unevenly into Proko’s mouth; Proko, to his credit, is taking it like a champ. His eyes are closed and Kavinsky’s stare blankly up to the night sky, unsettling the too-still summer air.

Suddenly, Kavinsky’s whole body tenses and he lets out a sharp breath as he reaches for Proko’s head. Proko gags, but Kavinsky holds him down, trembling slightly, his entire body arched like a bow for one long, protracted moment. And then he gasps in his next breath, panting hard, and his body sags. Ronan watches Proko’s throat move as he swallows several times, and then Proko turns to look at him. Ronan stares back, unsure of what to do. He wants to hold out a hand to help Proko up, and he wants to kick him out of the way so he can drive home, and he wants to get down on the ground with him and kiss him again, in spite of Kavinsky and to spite Kavinsky. He wants to get in his car and drive back to Kavinsky’s place to simmer until he boils over with the energy needed for round two, but this at least he won’t allow himself.

“Get off my car,” he says eventually. He reaches into his pocked and nearly panics until he remembered he left the keys in the ignition. A quick escape sounds good right about now. The sweat he pretends is on his skin is starting to itch.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” Kavinsky says, tilting his head. “The night’s still young.”

“I’ll run you over,” Ronan offers.

“Kinky.”

“Get off my fucking car, K.”

“So whiny, Jesus.” Kavinsky makes a big show of sliding all the way off the car and adjusting his jeans. Proko is sitting on the ground now, sucking on his lower lip. He looks up and catches Ronan’s gaze again and they look at each other for a second. Proko is so often inscrutable. He wants what he gets, but Ronan never knows what he wants besides that.

He tears his eyes away and steps between them, jerking the car door open. Kavinsky slinks around Proko, running a hand over his head, as Ronan sinks into the seat and closes the door. He turns the engine over and slams the car into gear, tires screeching a little as he pulls out, fishtailing until the car finds its grip again and he rips out of the parking lot. He smells like them now, cigarettes and gas and salt and ash, and it’ll stay with him until he showers, and long after that. He glances at the Mitsubishi in the rearview mirror, and the two figures sat away from it, and he swears, because he knows that it’s only a matter of days before the three of them end up here again.


End file.
